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The next year rolls on; the winter turns to spring, snow gives way to showers that nourish the green of the fields beyond the edge of Camelot’s citadel and Gawain resumes his life in court. Some nights he lies awake, waiting for the Green Lady to rap on his door, let herself in, and hold him fast to her breast. Other nights he believes he will wake to find Lord Bertilak’s kind face smiling down instead, only to wake to the reality that they were both far from this place, beyond this realm, so instead Gawain listens to the rain hit the castle stones.
Spring turns to summer and the rains go with it, the warmth of sunny days begins to swallow the long winter nights. Gawain goes on more quests; he slays beasts and men and saves damsels and towns, but every swing of his sword feels weighed down by the green girdle, worn like a sash across his body. Summer gives way to the chill of fall, and as Gawain rides, the winds rush him and cool his armor; he feels an echo of the frantic energy of the year before: the dread of winter hanging over him, waiting to seek out his own personal reaper. He touches the scar on the nape of his neck. It’s long faded now, with no evidence that it ever marred his skin, but sometimes he swears he still feels the axe above his neck. Any moment now, he’ll make a wrong move and it will drop.
He suspects the other knights have begun to notice his nervous energy, but they attribute his anxiety to the chilling reminders of last year’s ordeal; Gawain lets them believe that’s all it is. He catches Queen Guinevere looking at him sometimes, with so much concern and pity in her eyes; it’s even worse when he catches King Arthur doing the same. Occasionally, while donning his armor before a venture, he’ll see the hesitation in his King’s eyes, as if he wishes to say something, but he never does.
The passage of time grates; the more winter draws near, the more Gawain feels pulled to memories of the year before: he feels that same weight of expectation and it only grows with each passing day. The pull of Hautdesert urging him to return leaves his limbs leaden and his mind fogged by the knowledge of what he’d find there should he return. He can see the doors swing open before him in his mind’s eye, welcoming him in from the cold, just as it did the year before. The frantic energy within him grows, but so does the energy of the castle as the first snow begins to fall. Camelot is kicked up in its own flurry as it prepares for the merry feasting set to begin in the coming months. The days rush past in a blur of jolly preparation and before he knows it, it’s been a year since he set off for that accursed quest. He resolves that after that day’s supper has concluded, rather than returning to his chambers and readying for sleep, Gawain will prepare himself for travel. He forgoes the heavy and ornamented armor that served as his protection the year before, but he brings the shield, hopeful the Virgin Mother will protect him on his unsanctioned travels. All the stable hands have gone to rest for the night, so Gawain does his best to tread lightly as he prepares his trusted horse, Gringolet. He’s almost succeeded in leaving the castle unnoticed when he realizes there’s another horse prepared for riding. “Are you ready to leave?”
“My Lord! My apologies, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Gawain turns to see King Arthur standing before him, his arms are crossed despite his mirthful expression. Gawain realizes he too is dressed for a long day of riding, “What are you doing awake, my Lord?”
“I thought it was quite obvious, I’m going with you.”
“My Lord, you can’t,” Gawain sputtered, “you- you can’t just leave Camelot without her sovereign!”
“Oh, please, Guinevere can handle the castle, and the court will keep things running in my absence, besides,” he gives Gawain a knowing look, “you seemed like you might require some assistance.” Gawain found himself vexed by Arthur’s seeming lack of faith.
“I assure you, my Lord, I can handle the journey alone.”
“Then I’ll just ride along for company then, no one should be alone during this holy time of year,” Arthur mounted his horse. “Where are we off to, Sir Gawain?” Gawain rushed to mount his own horse, his mind still swirling with a million protests to his king’s request.
“Sire, I must insist-”
“Are we heading North, or South, Sir Gawain?” Arthur meets Gawain’s gaze with one of steel, unwavering in his conviction, Gawain knows he has lost.
“South… my Lord,” he tacked on to the end.
“Excellent, let’s away,” Arthur spurred his horse onward and Gawain followed in his wake, still unsure if allowing Arthur to accompany him will ruin his plans—not that they were particularly fleshed out in the present moment—but he also knew his king was too stubborn to turn back now, he’d just have to make the most of it. He urges his horse to follow more closely behind Arthur.
𓇢𓆸
It was a day and a half before Arthur asked where precisely they were going.
“Hautdesert”
“I’ve never heard of it, outside of you, at least.”
“Yes, well, it’s quite far, and…” Arthur turned to face him as Gawain trailed off.
“And?”
“And, I have reason to believe it may not be… of this realm” Gawain saw the first twitch of hesitation in Arthur then.
“I see. And we’re going there because,” he prompted. Gawain knew this question was coming, it was only a matter of time, he really should have prepared a better answer. “It’s just…” the moment of truth, why was Gawaine returning? “They were just such kind hosts you see.”
“Before the Knight tried to chop your head off, you mean.” Gawain stilled, it was one thing to remember that Bertilak had planned Gawain’s demise the whole time they spent together, it was another to hear Arthur recount it with so much disdain. Gawain often found it difficult to reconcile the joy he felt in that place along with the terror of what came after. Of course, his seemingly imminent death loomed over him, but his days had been filled with such mirth within Bertilak’s walls.
“Yes, before that.”
“Well, you’ll have to forgive me if I struggle to picture it.” That gave Gawain pause.
“How so, my Lord?”
“Well, the one time I clapped eyes on this Lord Bertilak of yours,” Gawain could feel his face heat at the implication, “he came riding into the hall in the middle of a feast, quite literally on his high horse. Hardly good manners.”
“Yes well—
“And then,” Arthur continued, “he calls everyone in my court cowards, and just lets his head be lopped off.” Arthur looks at Gawain, his expression light and playful. “I mean, it’s just uncouth, there were ladies present.” Gawain thought back to what Bertilak had told him of Morgan le Fay’s plan.
“Yes well, that was quite the point, to frighten her majesty.”
“Yes! I’d quite forgotten that,” Arthur chuckled, “terrible manners.”
“Well… he did at least dress appropriately for his attendance at a royal feast.” He lamely defended. Why Gawain was coming to the Green Knight’s defence, he didn’t quite know.
“Yes, he was dressed quite handsomely… I’m not sure that makes up for trying to steal away my best knight.” Once again, Gawain felt his face heat at the insinuation that Bertilak was trying to stake a claim on him. Testing him to prove him worthy of Bertilak himself, rather than as a knight of Camelot.
“That’s kind of you to say, my Lord.” Arthur once again looked to Gawain, his jovial expression faltering, into one of concern. He seemed to take mercy on Gawain, halting his teasing as it flowed from behind his teeth and instead allowing silence to hang.
𓇢𓆸
“Does it have something to do with the lady of the house?” It had been nearly two days since Arthur had last probed why they were traveling to Hautdesert. In the interim he had made playful jabs here and there, light hearted suggestions that they should turn back. They’d fell a pack of wolves, or a giant and Arthur would suggest that perhaps the fates didn’t intend for them to continue, but Gawian kept brushing it aside, insisting it was like this the first time he made the journey as well. Each nightfall they’d look for a place to stay the night away from the biting chill, and Arthur would suggest one place or another, before eventually suggesting they just go home. Gawain would always chuckle, brushing it off as a joke, but now he had begun to fear Arthur was testing him. Trying his resolve, his courage, which had failed him the year previous. His hand twisted into the green girdle as he considered the possibility now. “Perhaps, she was quite beautiful.”
“She seemed to take quite a liking to you,” Arthur playfully nudged his shoulder; it was easy to forget out here that Arthur held so much power over Gawain, he was only a couple years his senior. And as they drew further from the borders of Camelot, he could see a slight weight begin to lift from his uncle’s shoulders, replaced with the folly of youth. “Were you ever tempted?”
“She was married to my host—”
“Oh please, like that’s ever stopped anyone.” Once again, Arthur’s humor was light, but Gawain could see a sharpness in his eyes, a gentle probing to his questions. “I was but… I never crossed a boundary.” Arthur’s eyebrows lifted.
“That doesn’t sound like you,” he put a hand to his forehead and swayed backward from where he sat in his saddle, mimicking a swooning woman, “wooing maidens left and right.” “Yes, well, I had a lot on my mind.” Arthur dropped his hand and righted his posture, losing some of his gaiety.
“I suppose that would put a damper on the festivities, so to speak.”
“Yes,” Gawain scoffed, “quite.” He thought for a moment, perhaps this was the reason. Perhaps all he wanted was to finish what she had started, continue their courtship and steal her away from her husband. His gut twisted. “It would be nice to see her again. She was lovely.” Arthur smiled softly.
“What was her name?”
“Lady Bertilak?” Arthur rolled his eyes.
“Yes, I know she’s Lady Bertilak, but what was her first name, her given name?” Gawain’s mind screeched to a halt as his face screwed up while he tried to recall. “You didn’t ask?” Arthur jabbed.
“Well, I—”
“She was visiting you everyday for three days, kissing you and speaking with you for hours at a time and you didn’t think to ask her name?” Gawain averted his king’s gaze, why hadn’t he asked? He certainly had ample opportunity, as Arthur was happy to point out. The playfulness returned to Arthur as he watched Gawain’s mind turn, but Gawain could not share in the moment. His mind had already run to far off possibilities, perhaps she didn’t have a name. Perhaps she too was a trick of magic, like the guise of the Green Knight himself, a spell woven by Morgan le Fay. Arthur had started laughing as Gawain’s mind spiraled through all the worst possibilities that were still somehow better than his own failing, which simply was the fact.
“No, I suppose it never occurred.” Arthur began to laugh raucously, the sound tearing out of him as he struggled to stay upright through the force of it, but all Gawain could feel was embarrassment. “It’s not like she offered it either!” Arthur continued to laugh. “Those three days were plenty of time for her to simply tell me!” After a while, Arthur did finally settle, wiping tears from his eyes.
“Well, she must have been something quite special,” Arthur acquiesced, “if she made you forget to ask her name.”
“Yes, quite,” Gawain easily agreed. But he also noticed the lingering look in Arthur’s eye, the sliver of doubt. What was he thinking? Was he thinking Gawain was a lovesick fool, or perhaps he thought he was an utter pillock for never thinking to ask a lady’s name. Or, worst of all, maybe he didn’t believe she was real at all, maybe he thought Gawain had imagined her, or conceived of her in his own mind and lied. He had heard the whispers in the court for the past year, not from his fellow knights, but from servants, some courtiers. Saying that maybe the reason he was so distraught was because he never went. Perhaps his courage hadn’t failed him during his perceived execution, but before he could ever fulfill his agreement. He couldn’t abide the possibility that Arthur could think the same way. But then, why else would he insist on joining Gawain, if not to confirm Hautdesert and all its residents were real. Arthur was one of the finest knights of them all, the idea that he could doubt Gawain so much crushed his spirit. Maybe that’s why he had to return, why he felt the pull. He had to prove to everyone, prove to himself, that he still was the man they thought he was. The man he thought he was. Arthur falls quiet, his eyes assessing, before eventually riding ahead once more. That night, Gawian laid awake, his mind turning through all the possibilities as the stars turned overhead.
𓇢𓆸
As they’re making camp on the last night before their arrival at Hautdesert, Gawain is finally ready to admit to himself that the stress is getting to him. It’s at least partially to do with Arthur, in the intervening days since their last conversation about Hautdesert he’s made fewer and fewer suggestions of going home. This could, of course, be because they’re nearly at their destination, and turning back now would make it all feel a bit pointless. But there’s a lingering concern that Arthur has stopped asking for Gawain to return home because he truly doesn’t believe everything Gawain has told him about his tangling with the Green Knight. That he wishes to see the glittering manor to confirm that Gawain has seen it, to verify his presence there the year prior. Arthur has made no indication of this, but he keeps looking at Gawain, assessing. Like he’s strategising, waiting for Gawain to say something so he can speak his mind. Gawain wishes he knew what the right phrase could possibly be, because the tension between himself and his uncle has been mounting and has begun to make him think he’s going mad.
As Gawain puts another log on the fire before sitting down; Arthur must finally see his opportune moment as he stops just measuring him up and finally speaks. “Are you looking forward to seeing him again?” Gawain feels himself freeze, just for a moment, before readopting his best attempt at a relaxed posture.
“Yes, I believe he has a lot to answer for.” Arthur huffs a laugh before going back to removing his armor, perhaps he should have pretended he didn’t know who they were discussing.
“Well, as long as you give me fair warning before you decide to let him have it, as it were.” Gawain’s face heats
“What do you mean by that?” Arthur turns to fully look at him and Gawain can’t believe what he sees there. He expected some look of accusation, some pride—as if he caught the cat in the cream—but instead saw kindness, sympathy.
“Well, I just know your reunion means much to you, so—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gawain is quick to interject.
“Oh come now,” Arthur looks at him as if Gawain is the one being ridiculous. As if he’s not implying what Gawain is sure he is. “You thought I hadn't noticed?” Gawain turns his gaze away, his eyes land on his shield, the Holy Mother gazing back at him with gentle eyes. “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re implying, my Lord.”
“Don’t be like that,” Gawain refuses to look back at Arthur, his eyes stuck to the image of The Virgin. “You don’t have to hide out here. You’re hardly the first man to go mad with love or lust and escape into the woods.” Gawain’s head finally whips back to stare at Arthur, his eyes are gay, his posture relaxed, as if they’ve discussed this each day of their journey. “I may not understand it, I still think this Bertilak is a queer fellow but—”
“Stop,” Gawain pleads, he has started shaking where he sits by the fire. Arthur walks towards him, Gawain braces himself for a blow, the axe finally swinging down. Arthur’s hand hovers above him, Gawain won’t move, won’t flinch. The hand comes down, Gawain stares forward onto the open ground, but the blow never comes; Arthur merely places his hand on Gawain’s shoulder, a comforting weight.
“I know it’s scantly accepted in Camelot, but you’re hardly the only knight with…” he pauses, Gawain looks into his face and watches his king choose the right words, “differing tastes. I mean, have you seen Lancelot and Galehot—” Gawain brushes the offending hand away and rises from his seat, quickly putting distance between himself and Arthur, he feels the urge to raise his shield. Arthur stops mid thought, mid word, and pivots with all the grace of a practiced warrior in the turning tide of battle, “it’s quite alright—”
“It’s not. You know it is not.” The kind smile Arthur had been carefully maintaining falls. “That man, that place, has been taunting me for the past year. Any feelings, any gratification I may have experienced there, pales in comparison to the horror I felt in the wake of my failures. Each moment we near that place, I know that by returning there, that I am returning to the darkest stain on my good name. Reopening the most crippling wound I have ever suffered that I only have myself to blame for.” Arthur seems, for the first time Gawain as ever seen, at a complete loss.
“Then why return?”
“Because I lost something there,” Gawain clutches his chest and hangs his head. “I lost a piece of myself there in that haunted chapel and I don’t know how to get it back. I don’t know how to make him return it to me.” Gawain’s hand drops, “I don’t know if it’s something that can be recovered. But, I know I cannot be a knight worthy of your court if I don’t recover it all the same” Gawain looks up to see Arthur, still frozen and at a loss for what to do. The concern that was only a glint before, like the hint of a spider’s web, the silver strands of it have wound their way around every part of the king’s posture. “I know you feel the same: that is why you followed me, isn’t it?”
“I was concerned for you.”
“Concerned about my ability to serve you.”
“Yes!” Arthur bursts, a fury taking over. “Yes, because if you do not have your confidence, your courage to serve—”
“I knew it! I knew you doubted my resolve. Is that why you came, why you kept suggesting we turn tail, testing my fortitude, seeing if I’d lose my nerve?”
“I was praying for you to lose your nerve.” Gawain freezes, once again, the argument dying on his tongue as desperation curls around his beloved uncle’s words. “I was hoping my presence in the stable would deter you, as you were clearly trying to flee unnoticed; but when you carried on, I followed and pleaded with The Lord that you’d finally see sense and return home.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Gawain, the last time you went to that place, we were certain we’d never see you again. The knights mourned, Guinevere wept with worry each day of your absence. And then you returned, and they were all so relieved, I was so relieved, but you had changed. Something was wrong—” Gawian flinched, “different,” Arthur corrected. “And I didn’t know what to do to set it right. I still don’t.” They both went silent, any noise in the wilderness seemed dampened by the weight of Arthur’s admission. Everything Gawain had feared was true, he had lost his king’s trust along with his trust in himself. Neither spoke for the remainder of the evening, and neither dared break the silence till the next morning. As they mounted their horses, Arthur made one last appeal for home.
“I can’t,” Gawain replied, his eyes on the horizon, stealing himself for the last few hours of the pilgrimage, “I have to go back, I have to confront him.” Arthur sighed, but nodded, perhaps he was finally beginning to understand. Or maybe he never could, could only accept. Gawain spurred Gringolet forward, leading onward through the snowy wood.
𓇢𓆸
As they emerged from the woods into the clearing, Gawain braced himself for the blow that returning would bring, but also felt a surprising, bubbling excitement rising in his breast. He closed his eyes and readied himself for the sight of the glittering manor, but when he opened his eyes, no such sight greeted him. All there was was a clearing utterly devoid of snow, as if winter had never touched it. It was encompassed by the familiar wood that Bertilak had gone hunting for game in, but there was no indication anyone had ever been there. He heard Arthur stop behind him, “I don’t understand.”
“Is something amiss?”
“It should be here, it was right here.” Gawain rode out into the center of the clearing, he dismounted and began surveying the glade. Arthur quickly followed and watched from atop his horse as Gawain looked around in bewilderment. “This here was the great hall, and over there,” he gestured in a seemingly random direction, “were the stairs to the chambers on the level above.” Arthur looked on as Gawain continued to walk in circles, crushing swaths of grass as he made his way through the lush field. “I don’t understand, it’s all gone.” Arthur hears a soft clattering at his side and turns to see Gawain’s shield come loose from where it was affixed to his saddle, it began to roll towards Gawain, drawing its own spiralling circle in the grass before eventually falling flat at the knight’s feet, revealing the image of the pentangle emblazoned upon it. Gawain stared at it, utterly still for a moment before he started gripping at his hair with shaking hands and fell to his knees, letting out a guttural and mournful cry.
Arthur was at a loss for what to do as he watched his nephew rant and rave, going on about fae and magic and cunning women and seductive men, losing all sense the longer he stayed there, brought to his knees in the green growth, his hands clutching his head and tearing at his hair. Unable to just sit and watch his most beloved knight lose his mind, Arthur dismounted from his horse and rushed to his side. “It’s not over yet, take heart, my dear Gawain.” He crouched before him and placed his hands on the young knight’s shoulders. “It’s not over yet, perhaps he’s in this Green Chapel you spoke of, do you know where it is?” Gawain raised his head, his hair wild and eyes red and raw from crying tears of frustration.
“Yes... yes, the chapel.” He swiftly rose to his feet and clambered to mount his horse, spurring it on and riding off in another seemingly random direction of forest, leaving his abandoned shield and his king behind without a second thought. Arthur rushed to follow him on his own horse, calling his name all the while. Gawain remembered the path to the chapel from the year before, and he figured his only salvation would be found there. He chuckled at the irony of finding both his damnation and salvation in that accursed, unnatural round.
When Arthur finally caught up to him after following the sounds of hoofbeats over a worn and long overgrown path through the forest, he slowed so his horse would stand next to Gawain’s. He looked at Gawain's face, really looked, and there he found a disturbing mix of desperation and hopelessness. The journey here had been arduous, and his hair and beard had grown long and unruly without ample time to shave. His eyes were still red as he looked on and his armor was now covered in mud and grass, as if the ground had tried to swallow him after he crashed into it. Arthur’s mind flashed back to that night a year ago, when he watched that wretched green head roll around on the ground, and he loathed his mind for seeing its echo in his nephew. Arthur feels a scowl curl his features, furious and hungering to clap eyes on this Green Chapel and confront the man that had reduced his most trusted knight to this raving madman, who was scared of how large and proud his own shadow had grown. He turned his head to look for this ‘chapel’, but all he saw was a green mound surrounded by a gnarled ring of holly that had grown knotted in an unnaturally flawless circle. “We cannot be here, Gawain. This is a place of devils.”
Gawain stared forward, eyes glazed over. His frazzled mind tried to recover from the shock. He looked at the ring of holly and felt a painful pressure in his head, seemingly urging him on. He thought back to when he was small and his mother warned him not to go wandering through any rings of mushrooms, for fear the fae would claim him and take him to another world. He thought back to that glittering manor, the Knight’s unnatural hue: perhaps it really was another place. He began trying to urge Gringolet onward—maybe if he crossed into the ring, he would be brought back to that wonderful hall. His horse reared back when a deer hopped into the center of the cairn, after settling his mount, Gawain looked on, watching, waiting for something to happen, holding his breath lest a moment of stirred air disturb any miracle that may take place. He thought, perhaps, the deer would disappear, or Bertilak and his hunting dogs would burst from the woods and capture the creature, but no such thing happened. The deer was serene, unafraid as it looked into the dark eyes of Sir Gawain, twitched an ear, and then hopped calmly out of the holly ring without incident.
Gawain feels the breath he held get knocked out of his lungs. How could this be? How could there just be nothing left. He thinks back to when he discovered the great manor the year before, praying for a moment of respite as he trudged his way through unrelenting fields of snow, and he understands, it was a gift. He may have been invited to return, but that doesn’t mean he was meant to. The first time was a glimpse, a moment of pure joy and utter gaiety—meant to be enjoyed, but never to be repeated. A sanctuary in which to pass mass before moving on. He feels the tension he’s carried for the last year fall away, the rope pulling him back to this place loosens from his throat, he can finally breathe again. Gawain must make peace with the fact that Bertilak and all the bittersweet bliss he wrought will linger in his memories; those days will dance behind his eyelids when he lays his head down to rest, but they will never truly return. Only their phantoms shall remain. He looks to Arthur and his king must see the change in him, the fury that marred his king’s face gives way to a solemn look before he turns to withdraw back through the forest. Gawain follows, quietly reveling in the slow but sure return of his consciousness to his body, his once heavy limbs granted a new sureness that has eluded him ever since he first looked on the sweet faces of Lord and Lady Bertilak. A knight must know his own mind, and accept what happens and continue forth, so he does.
They walk through the clearing where that glorious manor once stood—if he closes his eyes, he can almost hear the cheer of that old court. He savors the memories, settling into the fact they are all he’ll have of that time. He dismounts his horse and retrieves his shield from the plot where the great hall once stood, he regards the pentangle and recites the virtues in his head, just as he had done many times before. He returns to his horse and follows Arthur to the edge of the forest, guarded from his own doubt, knowing that the pleasure he found here does not make him unclean, nor does the fear: the doubt he’s carried with him for the past year—like an infant with a favored blanket—was the blot. He must restore the confidence he had in himself, the confidence in Camelot’s court. As Arthur reaches the edge of the clearing, only pausing to reassure himself that Gawain is following before disappearing into the trees. Gawain tightens his sash and casts one last look over his shoulder, wishing to retain this memory, should he ever falter.
He looks back into that field of green and sees it once more, the glittering Hautdesert, the blessed manor. He feels a momentary pull before smiling to himself and turning his back, following Arthur through the trees.
𓇢𓆸
When they return to Camelot, it is a new year, and the court rushes to welcome their beloved noblemen home. A great feast is held to celebrate their return; Arthur regales the court with stories of his and Sir Gawain’s travels, praising the young knight and his many virtues, mercifully excluding his brush with insanity.
Before retiring for the night, warmed to his core with wine and good cheer, Gawain is stopped by Arthur in an empty hallway. “You have proven yourself to me once again, not just for your courage, but your wisdom to not chase ghosts.”
“I have but you to thank, my Lord. For surely I wouldn’t have broken free of grief’s spell without your guidance.” Arthur gives him a warm smile, which Gawain is quick to return. They embrace before splitting ways, each man to his own chambers. In his sleep, Gawain is dazzled by images of great games started in grand halls, kisses shared with beautiful nobles, and bright red eyes looking out from an emerald complexion, and feels content.
Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense.